


Empathy

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Prompto Argentum, Description of Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Noctis Lives AU, POV Third Person, Torture, Violence, boys crying, implied PTSD, implied ardynoct, implied promdyn, sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: He remembers those precious nights in Zegnautus, holding Prompto close and safe in an effort to get him calm enough to rest. He remembers the sensation of hanging in that machine with Ardyn doing whatever he wanted to him, beating and touching and taking and making him believe horrible things. He’s a fool, an absolute dumbass, for thinking that it was any better for Prompto, or that either of them should be over it by now, or that he should have sat down and died immediately without considering the effort they went through to rescue him.[inspired by Kaciart]





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 28 September 2017, on my tumblr. Edited 5 December 2018.
> 
> While I'm still proud of this work, please understand that it is more than a year old as of this archiving. As such, it is not my best work nor representative of my writing today.
> 
> Inspired by [ this drawing and story from Kaciart.](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/163339970403)

Noctis stirs on the rack he’s strapped to, pain flooding him as he wakes from a fitful nap. He instantly wishes he’s back asleep, so he doesn’t have to face the reality he’s been left in, the reality he’s created.  
  
How could he have let himself be sucked into the Crystal? How could he have abandoned his friends, only to let them be murdered by Ardyn? How could he have let ninety percent of the population die, alone in the dark? Some “King Of Light” he was.  
  
He groans audibly, which proves to be a bad idea. In this godsforsaken machine he can barely breathe, and feeling the pressure of the metal bands on his lungs as they struggle to fill with air sends black spots across his vision.  
  
His brain doesn’t let up either, repeating the same,  _‘how could you…’_  phrases over and over until he wants to scream. At this point, he’d rather hear Ardyn talk about his friends’ death throes again if it meant shutting out the destructive thoughts traipsing through his mind.

Once Noctis has rebuilt the air reserves in his lungs, he goes through the little routine he’s built since beginning his stay here.  
  
Wrists? Still can’t pull them free.  
  
Legs? Same.  
  
Chest? Considering the multitude of bruises and broken ribs, he’d rather not try. Probably doesn’t have the strength to break free that way anyway.  
  
Head? He can barely lift it, but he tries anyway. He’s in his old bedroom at the Citadel, with the only major difference from his youth being the bodies that hang from the vaulted ceiling. Noctis uses all his remaining strength to look upwards, catches a glimpse of his father’s broken form, and has to look back down. He recently stopped vomiting about Prompto’s bruised and beaten corpse up there, and he doesn’t want to start again.  
  
Astrals?  
  
Noctis closes his eyes, trying to feel for the telltale tingling sensation he gets when an Astral comes to his aid. He finds nothing but the burning in his arms, and the sore ache of bruises pressed against metal.  
  
He has absolutely nothing.  
  
Worse, a familiar noise enters his range of hearing; rhythmic metal on metal. An MT is patrolling.  
  
Noctis closes his eyes. Maybe if it thinks he’s asleep, it won’t retrieve Ardyn.  
  
The sound gets closer, stopping for a second, then two, then three. The perfect metal footsteps start again, now entering the room. Noctis does his damndest to appear unconscious.  
  
Then, there’s a hand on his arm. It’s heavy and cold and he wants nothing more than to shake it off when a familiar voice says, “Oh my Gods…”  
  
Noctis’s eyes snap open, and sees that the MT is looking up at the corpses. It tips its head down to look at him, takes a step back, and removes the helmet.  
  
It’s Prompto, in the armor, but that doesn’t make any sense. Prompto’s dead, strung up in the rafters like a party decoration.  
  
The confusion must be blatant on Noctis’s face, because the Prompto in front of him holds both index fingers up.  
  
“Okay, right, look. I know this is weird. But we gotta hurry, alright?”  
  
He unlatches Noctis’s right arm, and then his left, and then reaches behind his torso to a lever on the back of the machine. An instant later, Noctis has gone boneless, falling into Prompto’s waiting arms.  
  
“It’s okay, I got you. Can you stand?”  
  
Noctis somehow manages to get his feet properly underneath him, and stands up shakily. The vertigo from being back in control of his own body is almost overwhelming, but he manages.  
  
“Great,” Prompto says, reaching to his waist and pulling out his handgun. He checks it over, and hands it to Noctis. “You know how to use this?”  
  
Noctis can’t speak just yet, so he nods.  
  
“Great,” Prompto repeats, cheerier this time, and pulls a rifle off his back, “‘cause I’m using this.”  
  
He grimaces at the MT helmet in his opposite hand, but pulls it back on anyway. He offers the empty hand to Noctis, who glances back up at the bodies of his loved ones.  
  
Prompto notices where he’s looking, aims the rifle up, and fires. The bullets hit the corpses, and they flicker like a projection. He offers his free hand again. Noctis takes it.  
  
The Citadel is empty and dead silent. The two men make their way through easily, dispatching the few MTs wandering the halls. Neither of them say anything to each other, although Noctis has a headful of questions:  _'how did you know I was here?’ 'are you alright in that uniform?’ 'are Specs and Gladio okay?’ 'where are we going?’_  
  
Prompto motions for him to stop eventually, and takes a glance into the Throne Room. When they walk in, Prompto makes a break towards a hole in the left wall, where a dropship is docked.  
  
Noctis, however, marches up to the Throne.  
  
“Hey kid,” someone says, muffled (Gladiolus?). “Where’s Noct?”  
  
Noctis sits down in the Throne and closes his eyes. He only has the faintest of ideas as to what comes next, but he has to do this before Ardyn finds he’s escaped.  
  
Or…he would, if Prompto wasn’t pulling him out of his seat and roughly dragging him into the dropship.  
  
Before he can fight back, the ship snaps shut and rumbles to life.  
  
The first thing Noctis Lucis Caelum, the King Of Light, says to his best friends in the  _world_ after ten years, is a rough and gravelly, “What are you doing?”  
  
Prompto shudders, peeling the MT armor off of his body and kicking it to the corner of the loading bay. He fixes Noctis with a baffled look.  
  
“N-wha? What do you think we’re doing?” The pitch of his voice raises in incredulousness. “Getting away from the Citadel, duh! Ardyn’s gonna notice you’re gone any second!”  
  
Noctis shakes his head. “No, we have to turn back.” He turns and walks towards the back of the ship, to the stairs leading to the bridge. “Where’s the pilot?”  
  
Gladiolus stalks towards him and rips his King around to face him. Noctis doesn’t even care about the new scars littering his Shield’s neck, the greasy ponytail his hair is pulled back into.  
  
“Noct, there is no way on Eos we’re giving you back to that madman.”  
  
Noctis’s face twists into a scowl, and he fights against the grip on his stained t-shirt. “I have to face the Accursed. The longer he lives, the more people suffer.”  
  
“You need medical attention, Noct,” Ignis says, hearing the struggle between the two and trying to get in-between him and Gladiolus.  
  
“And how would you know?!” Noctis spits out, lost in the stress of his friends thwarting his destiny.  
  
Ignis raises his voice to match, “Because we’ve dealt with this before.”  
  
The room gets eerily quiet, and Noctis can’t help but look at Prompto, out of the corner of his eye. He notices, and looks at the ground.  
  
“The last time we tried to recover in Ardyn’s domain,” Prompto grits out, “I couldn’t sleep without nightmares, and a rock ate you.”  
  
Prompto closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath, and draws closer to where the other three men are standing.  
  
“I know what he did to you.”  
  
When he opens them again, the bright blue eyes have a hardness to them Noctis has scarcely seen before. “It’s not easy, Noct. Having barely a few nights to recover from that while running on potions and maybe a couple hours of sleep, before marching right back up to the man who-”  
  
He sighs, brow creasing in frustration.  
  
“I don’t want that for you. Let me help you get what I didn’t.”  
  
Noctis is suddenly caught in a riptide of emotion. He remembers those precious nights in Zegnautus, holding Prompto close and safe in an effort to get him calm enough to rest. He remembers the sensation of hanging in that machine with Ardyn doing whatever he wanted to him, beating and touching and taking and making him believe horrible things. He’s a fool, an absolute _dumbass_ , for thinking that it was any better for Prompto, or that either of them should be over it by now, or that he should have sat down and died immediately without considering the effort they went through to rescue him.  
  
It’s all too much.  
  
Noctis stumbles forward out of Gladiolus’ grip, and envelops Prompto in a crushing hug. He wants to speak so badly, but he can’t find the words.  
  
Prompto hugs back, tighter than he ever has.  
  
“Whatever he told you,” Prompto says, “About us, or me, or anyone–it’s a lie. Everything he said was a lie, Noct.”  
  
Noctis sniffles. “Obviously. For one, he told me he killed you all.”  
  
Gladiolus immediately joins the two in their hugging, his huge arms wrapping around them both. Ignis lets out a small exhale, and squeezes in too.  
  
“We’re alive,” Ignis says. “We’re alive and we’re real.”  
  
Noctis feels Gladiolus nods in agreement. Prompto adds, “We really came for you.”  
  
Noctis barely holds his tears in.  
  
Eventually, they all release their grip on each other. Ignis and Prompto both stick close to Noctis as they guide him to a small room in the back of the dropship, and Gladiolus seeks out the first aid supplies.  
  
Noctis sits down on a decently comfortable bed, legs dangling over the edge. Prompto settles next to him, and pulls Noctis’s hands into his lap, twining their fingers together.  
  
Ignis walks out to fetch something, and leaves the two alone.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Noctis says, and suddenly the tears he’s been holding back start and won’t stop. Prompto only swipes a thumb across his knuckles. “I’m sorry for…for not giving you an opportunity to heal, and leaving you behind, and….and even letting you become his plaything in the first place.”  
  
Prompto moves his left arm up to bring Noctis’s head down onto his shoulder. “I know.”  
  
“He did…gods, he had to have hurt you the same way he hurt me.”  
  
Prompto nods, and Noctis can feel it from where his head lies. “Bastard doesn’t really understand personal space, does he?”  
  
Noctis’s breath catches. “I’m….I’m sorry…”  
  
Prompto slides his fingers through Noctis’s unkempt, blood crusted hair.  
  
“Noct, Noct, shhh…shhhh…you don’t need to apologize.”  
  
Noctis’ crying lessens, and he hiccups.  
  
“Hey, look at me,” Prompto says, shifting his shoulder and turning to face Noctis’s rising head. “Do you know what’s gonna happen next?”  
  
Noctis doesn’t say anything.  
  
“We’re gonna fix you up, just like we did when I was like this, and we’re gonna get far, far away from Ardyn and the Crystal, and then we’re gonna look at our options. Okay?”  
  
Noctis nods, “Yeah. Okay.” Then he flinches, remembering: “Oh, gods, Umbra, I don’t know what happened to him. If he’s hurt—“  
  
“He is,” Prompto interrupts. “Pryna, she…um…came to me. In a vision. That’s how we knew what happened, where you were…he’s injured but he’s alright, just recovering, now. The Astrals are with him, I think.”  
  
Noctis laughs. “The Astrals are assholes.”  
  
Ignis enters the room again, with a basin of water, a cloth, the first aid kit, and Gladiolus in tow. He arches an eyebrow.  
  
“Says the man who not five minutes ago wanted to go and do their bidding without even getting cleaned up first.”  
  
While Ignis wets the cloth, Noctis figures he should pull his shirt off, revealing myriad bruises and injuries along his torso as he does so. Ignis moves closer, and his calloused hands find trouble areas on Noctis’s abdomen with practiced ease. It makes him wonder how many times Ignis has taken up this task in the past decade.  
  
“I have to,” Noctis winces as the cool cloth touches his battered skin, “Bahamut said the only way to lay Ardyn to rest and restore light was to kill myself.”  
  
Gladiolus snorts. “I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit.”  
  
“We’ve been looking for other ways, Noct,” Prompto continues, squeezing his hands lightly, “and now that you’re back, the search can go even faster. We’ll figure this out.”  
  
Ignis nods, cleaning dried blood around a slice in Noctis’s ribcage. “We’re not leaving you to die.”  
  
“I…”  
  
Noctis is at a loss for words, yet again. This is all happening so fast, and it’s so much to handle, and he’s unspeakably grateful to have his friends back, whole and here and _real_.  
  
The dropship lurches a little, and they all sway to the side slightly. Water from the basin slips onto the floor and dampens Ignis’s pants, but he ignores it and continues cleaning Noctis. Prompto holds his hands tight and sure, and Gladiolus sits down next to the first aid kit, ready to pass tools to Ignis should he need them.  
  
“What can I say?” Noctis comes out with, choking on raw emotion, “You guys…are the best.”  
  
Gladiolus smirks, and Prompto laughs, “Damn right we are!”  
  
Ignis gives a small smile of his own, saying, “We don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon, Noct.”  
  
“We just got you back,” Gladiolus affirms, “The whole 'stabbing yourself to death’ thing can wait.”


End file.
